


Indian Food

by NyteFlyer



Category: Donald Strachey Mysteries (Movies)
Genre: Canon Gay Relationship, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-20
Updated: 2013-01-20
Packaged: 2017-11-26 06:18:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/647489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NyteFlyer/pseuds/NyteFlyer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Donald remembers why he doesn’t like Indian food.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Indian Food

_Still, it’d be nice if you were just a little jealous._

_Oh, I am._

_You are?_

_Yeah, of him kissing_ _you on the hand like that._

_Yeah?_

_I’m green with envy. I’m seething with jealousy._

_Seething?_

_Mmm-hmm. And there’s only one way that you can make it up to me._

Donald whispered something in my ear, something filthy and physically improbable and incredibly…hot. So make it up to him I did. I made it up to him right there on the steps, as a matter of fact, and then again upstairs in a vastly more comfortable setting once we’d both gotten our second wind. Toward the end, something seemed a little off to me -- not with the sex itself, but with Donald. He reached climax just seconds after I did, however, then kissed me the way he always does and thanked me and told me that he loved me. Afterwards, we lay in a companionable tangle, with his face pressed against my neck and my arms wrapped loosely around his waist. I stroked his arms, his chest, his face, loving the smooth, slightly damp heat of his skin, the solidity of his compact body pressing against mine. Sometimes it seemed as if I could never get enough of touching Donald.

We were both a little worse for the wear after our tussle on the stairs, and knocking against the hard edges of the steps had left tender spots that would probably become bruises by the next day. When I noticed a place on his side that was already beginning to darken, I touched it with my fingertips, stroking it gently. I briefly considered going downstairs for the first aid kit so I could treat it with witch hazel, but Donald had me pinned to the spot, and I was far too content to move. He’d hooked a leg over both of mine and was languidly rubbing my calf with his foot. His hand lay on my chest, and every once in a while, he’d give the hair around my right nipple a sharp little tug. I’d swat his hand away, and it would settle again for a minute or maybe two before he couldn’t stand it any longer and would have to tug again. Finally, I caught his hand and kissed it, then held it against my cheek, my fingers laced through his.

“I love it when we fight,” I told him.

His face remained buried in my neck, his breath tickling my skin. “No, you don’t. You hate it just as much as I do. It’s the making up part we both like.”

I couldn’t argue with that. Smiling, I pressed his hand to my lips once again. I was seriously considering instigating another round of “making up” when his stomach gurgled loudly, ending in a long, low-pitched whine. He held his breath and drew his knees up, and I felt, rather than saw, him wince.

“Now I remember why I don’t eat Indian food,” he said once the cramp let up enough for him to speak.

Deciding to forgo the lecture we both knew he had coming, I eased him onto his back and rolled over so I could massage his belly, targeting the area just below his navel where years of hard-earned experience had taught me he required attention the most. Donald doesn’t like to admit it, but he has a sensitive digestive system and absolutely no common sense regarding what he eats, so by that point in our relationship, I was more than used to providing much-needed damage control. Groaning in relief, he covered my hand with his own, pressing it more firmly against his abdomen. After a few minutes passed, a remarkable amount of gas did as well. The sound was high-pitched and went on forever, like someone slowly letting air out of a birthday balloon. It took considerable effort not to laugh.

“Sorry,” he said.

I kissed his cheek and continued the massage. “Well, I did try to warn you.”

“Not true. You said I’m not a big fan of Indian food. I love Indian food. It doesn’t love me.“

“Next time, I’ll try to be more specific. I should have reminded you that it blows your intestines up like a balloon in the Macy’s Thanksgiving parade and gives you projectile diarrhea every time you eat it. Since Andrew was listening, I assumed you’d prefer I didn’t go into quite that much detail. In the future, however….”

“All right, all right,” he said. “I get your point.” Suddenly, he tensed, pressing my hand even harder against his stomach. Then he was gone, diving for the bathroom and slamming the door shut behind him. He was in there for so long I started to worry. Finally, he emerged, looking haggard. He shuffled toward the bed, bent over at the waist, with one hand clutching his belly.

“Fucking Indian food,” he said.

“My God, you look awful,” I told him. “Did you take anything? I can see how much you’re hurting. Do you want me to get the heating pad?”

“I’d rather have you.” He stretched out on top of me, lying belly to belly the way he so often did when something he’d eaten decided to bite back. There was another gaseous expulsion, long and loud, this time sounding as if something large and possibly made of rubber was flapping furiously in the breeze. He shuddered. So did my eardrums.

“Sorry,” he said again.

I wished he’d stop apologizing. There’s no getting around the fact that Donald is a farter, and he learned early on that I’m neither charmed nor amused by that particular trait of his. Over the years, he’d learned to be discreet, and he usually went out of his way to spare both my ears and my nasal lining as much as possible. I knew he was in pain and not doing this just to annoy me. Although I was hardly enjoying the audial and olfactory aspects of the situation, I wasn’t about to take issue with anything he had to do in order to feel better.

He was planning to stake out Dorothy and Edith’s place overnight and wanted to be back there and in position before dark, but the sun wouldn’t be setting for another couple of hours, so we had some time on our hands. I reached for the clock and set the alarm, thinking that perhaps a nap was in order. If he had a chance to sleep it off, his system might recover from all that curry and garlic, and he wouldn’t have to spend the whole night hunched over in his car, doubled up with cramps and completely miserable.

There was no doubt in my mind that he’d insist on working, no matter how awful he felt, so I began cataloguing the tasks waiting for me at the office, deciding there was nothing terribly urgent on the agenda. If I had to, I could leave a message on the senator’s voicemail, letting her know I wouldn’t be coming in the next day. I’d drive Donald to Hollis myself and spend the night there, keeping him company and doing what I could to make him more comfortable. He’d argue, of course, and say I didn’t have to do it. In the end, I’d win the debate. I always do.

As we pulled the covers over us and snuggled in, I couldn’t help thinking that even when he was speeding up the greenhouse effect by producing more than his fair share of methane, nothing in the world felt better than spending time in bed with Donald. Just when I thought he’d exhausted his decidedly _un_ -musical repertoire, I heard a series of rapid-fire pops. It sounded for all the world like the noises that come from beneath my secretary’s desk when she’s squirreled away a piece of bubble wrap and can’t resist playing with it. He pulled his face away from my neck long enough to peep up at me, another apology on the tip of his tongue, but I preempted it with a kiss. I pulled him even closer and began to rub circles on the small of his back.

“You’re a really great guy, you know that?”

“Hmmm, it’s nice to see you appreciate me after all,” I teased.

“I mean it. Not many guys would be willing to put up with me or…” he paused, waving his hand in an all-encompassing gesture, “…this.”

“Darling, I’ve been putting up with you and… _this…_ for years, and it hasn’t driven me away yet. Why do you think it would now?”

“I did this to myself,” he said. “I knew why you were trying to keep me away from the biryani, but I ate it anyway. I was trying to prove a really stupid point.”

“What possible point did you think making yourself sick was going to prove, Donald?”

“Dunno.“ He was quiet for a few moments, then admitted, “That Andrew’s not a threat to me, I guess.”

I perked up instantly. “So, you are jealous after all.”

“No, I’m really not. Look, Andrew seems like a nice enough guy, but sometimes he acts like he has…I dunno…like he sort of has an insider’s view of you.“

“Andrew and I had our time together years before you and I met, honey. He remembers certain things from my past that you couldn’t possibly know about because you weren’t there. But that doesn’t mean he knows _me_ , the person I am today. Not the way you do. No one knows me the way you do.”

“Told you it was stupid.“

“Not stupid. A little misguided, perhaps, but definitely not stupid.“

“Anyway, I admit I was kinda acting territorial around Andrew, but that’s not the same as being jealous. I could never be jealous over you.”

“Well, thanks. It’s nice to know I don’t warrant….”

“That’s not what I meant,” he said, burying his face against my neck once again. His body tensed, and he pressed down harder against me, groaning. I stroked his hair, feeling bad for teasing him. Why had I ever wanted him to be jealous? I’d had enough unfaithful lovers in the past to be all too familiar with the emotion. Feeling jealousy is a miserable, painful experience, one that makes you sick through and through. Donald meant the world to me, and I could never, ever wish pain on him. He’d had enough pain in his life already.

I remembered how we’d met and how long it had taken me to earn his trust, to know that he felt secure in our relationship, secure in the fact that I not only loved him, but saw him as someone deserving loyalty and love. Both of his parents had rejected him. All his friends had turned their backs on him when they found out about Kyle, treating him as if homosexuality were some noxious, contagious thing he might pass on to them if they stood too close. And then there was Kyle himself, the coward, who’d selfishly, brutally, broken his heart. No wonder Donald had abandonment issues. He’d been abandoned by everyone he’d ever cared for, except for me.

In some small, dark corner of Donald’s psyche, there exists a hard, painful kernel of fear. He hides it so well no one else would ever suspect it was there. But I know it; I’ve seen it often enough. It comes to light when he thinks my life’s in danger, when I’m injured or ill, when we fight. Afterward, it sometimes takes days or weeks or even months of quiet -- or not so quiet -- reassurances from me to put it back in its place, to get him back to the point where he masters the fear instead of letting it master him.

Donald has always been good to me. In spite of his notorious temper and his bull-in-a-china-shop approach to life, he’s always been so gentle with me, so protective of me and of my feelings. He’d rather die than hurt me; my faith in that is firm and unshakable. Why in the world would I want to do anything to shake his faith in me, to make him doubt the degree of my devotion? Even worse, why would I want to weaken his already shaky sense of self-worth? Suddenly, I felt horribly, miserably guilty, knowing how petty and childish I’d been acting since Andrew came to town. I was ready to tell him so when he pressed his lips to my ear.

“You love me,” he whispered.

“I love you more than anything,” I told him, squeezing him as hard as I could without causing bodily injury and peppering his face with kisses.

“See, I know that. You show me that every day we’re together. That’s why I could never be jealous over you. You’d never cheat on me with Andrew or anyone else. It would never even cross your mind. You’re just not wired that way. You love me too much, and you’d never do anything to hurt me.”

“I wouldn’t, and I wouldn’t want you to do anything to hurt yourself, either. So next time you and Andrew decide to get into a…a….”

“A pissing contest?” he offered, grinning.

“…a pissing contest, just tell him to go….”

“Fuck himself?”

“…fuck himself. Or you can punch him in the nose if it makes you feel better. Do something a little less detrimental to your health than eating something that’s pure poison to your system. Do it for me, okay?”

“Okay.” His smile turned into a grimace, and he squirmed against me, clenching his fists in the covers. I heard a series of rhythmic percussions reminiscent of a woodpecker hammering away on an oak tree. “Fucking Indian food,” he said.

“Fucking Indian food,” I cheerfully agreed.

He closed his eyes, suddenly exhausted. “Make sure I wake up in time to make it Hollis before dark, okay? The sooner I nail whoever’s threatening Dorothy and Edith, the sooner Andrew can head back to wherever he came from.”

“San Francisco,” I said, trying to be helpful.

“Yeah, well, whatever.”

I smiled and stroked his hair. “I’ll take care of it, Donald. Don’t I always take care of you?”

“Always,” he murmured, drifting. “Fucking Andrew McWhirter,” he added, the words a soft, garbled blur against the base of my throat.

I had a odd, uneasy feeling when he said that, an uncomfortable sensation I couldn’t explain then and still can’t explain today. Call it a premonition, perhaps, or intuition. Maybe I was just feeling particularly protective of Donald. Whatever the reason, I suddenly, if fleetingly, concurred.

Fucking Andrew McWhirter, indeed.


End file.
